Page 33 of Twisted Paths

Her breath hitches as I press a slow kiss to the curve of her hip, my fingers tracing the bare skin of her waist, her ribs, the delicate line of her spine. She’s watching me, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, her chest rising and falling a little faster than before.

I want to hear more of those quiet little breaths. I want to learn what makes her gasp, what makes her arch into me without thinking.

My hands slide higher, teasing at the edge of her knickers.

She shivers slightly under my touch, her fingers curling into my hair. “Luke.”

My name leaves her lips like a request, like a challenge, and something tightens in my chest at the sound of it.

I move back up, kissing her again, slow and deep, feeling the way she sinks into it, the way her hands wander over my skin like she’s memorising me.

She pulls back slightly, her forehead resting against mine, breathless.

“Do you always take your time like this?” she murmurs, her fingers dragging lightly down my spine.

I smirk, brushing my lips over her jaw. “Only when I want to do something properly.”

Her breath stutters, and I feel her smile against my skin.

“Then don’t stop.”

Nancy’s words pulse in my head, sinking into my skin.

Then don’t stop.

Like I ever would.

I tighten my grip, sliding my hands beneath her thighs as I lift her easily. A quiet gasp escapes her, but she doesn’t protest. Her arms wrap around my neck, her body warm against mine as I carry her towards the stairs.

She presses her lips to my jaw, slow and teasing, as I take the steps two at a time, the heat of her breath making it very clear that patience is going to be a struggle.

I push open the bedroom door and step inside, the room dimly lit from the soft spill of the sunset outside. The bed sits against the far wall, the duvet neatly in place. For now.

I set her down, her bare feet hitting the cool floor, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, her fingers dip beneath the waistband of my shorts, skimming lightly over my hips before she looks up at me, eyes full of something dangerous.

“Your turn,” she murmurs, giving a slow tug.

Not yet.

I shake my head, my hands sliding over her waist, her ribs, trailing lower. “Yours first.”

She exhales, a slow, wicked smile playing at the corner of her mouth. Her fingers trail up my chest, skimming across my skin before she steps back, holding my gaze as her hands move to her bra straps.

She pushes them down slowly, teasingly, letting the thin material slide from her shoulders, exposing the top of her tits.

I clench my hands at my sides, jaw tightening as she unhooks it and lets it fall away completely.

She holds my gaze as her fingers hook into the waistband of her knickers, sliding them down slowly, teasingly. The last scrap of fabric falls to the floor, leaving her completely bare before me.

I swallow, my hands still clenched at my sides, every muscle in my body tight with restraint. She isn’t shy. If anything, she looks deliberate, confident in the way she moves, in the way she lets me see her.

My eyes flick down to her mound—not hairless, but neatly trimmed, soft curves leading to smooth thighs. The sight of her like this, so natural, so utterly unbothered by the moment, makes something tighten in my chest.

She steps closer, her hands sliding up my stomach, her touch featherlight, teasing. Her fingers dip to my waistband, unbuttoning my cargo shorts with the same slow ease she’d used on her own clothes.

The fabric loosens instantly.

She doesn’t hesitate.

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